Mermaids and Mayhem is an author blog and book review depot. Beware that anything you say or do could end up in a book.

Saturday, November 16, 2013

Let's Start at the Begininning

It occurs to me, after reading my last entry, that I posted Chapter Two of the "Thirty Jesuses: and Other Bedlam Stories" book. Chapter Two doesn't really explain the title of the book, and makes reference to a previous character from Chapter One, Vinnie (Vincent). Perhaps you're interested in Chapter One? If so, here it is! (again, language warning)

Chapter One

Every year around
Christmas time, the Jesuses would begin to arrive. On Ward E (what we called
the Asshole to Hell) at New Mexico State Mental Institution, we'd have
about thirty Jesuses by Christmas Eve. I worked there at NMSMI for 27 years as
a registered nurse and let me tell you I saw and heard some crazy shit. That's
not a word I use lightly.

I
was the batty nurse, the patients would call me Crazy Colleen. I always told my
staff that the only thing separating them from the patients were their key
rings. I was the only nurse who lasted any length of time on E Ward; most of
them were afraid of the patients they were charged to care for. I found a sort
of beauty in their madnesses, the way they lived in their own worlds and made
it work or not work, according to their own designs. Don't get me wrong. They
suffered, oh how they suffered. Every one of them was locked away in prisons of
their own minds, their rebellions as pathetic as they were lovely in their grand
illusions, tragic and flawed. I did what I could to make their lives easier.

The
District is what we called the higher ups in hospital administration. At that
time, for example, young women could be lobotomized for sneaking out at night,
if their parents wished it so, and the District would authorize the surgery.
They'd have the poor unfortunate wretch transferred, scared and shaking, to one
of the other wards. A doctor would show up with his ice picks and mallets, and
a few moments later, Ward E would have a new patient. We were not huge fans of
the District on Ward E, let me tell you. The District would hand down notice,
often merely hours in advance, that they would be touring the facility with
some bleeding heart types. These were the cash cows, the ones whose rich
donations salved their consciences for several months before guilt crept back
in. They would tour the facility, clucking their tongues, thinking how
fortunate they were that such craziness had not touched their lives, yet quick
to come up with stories of a mad aunt or uncle way back in the genealogy. To
make the patients feel that they had something in common, you see.

I
was often in trouble with the swells, because I treated the patients as if they
were humans rather than animals, people who needed help rather than inmates.
The District didn't dare get rid of me though; E Ward was where they sent the
worst of the worst and I was the only one who could handle them and the staff.
Plus, I was stubborn, you see. I liked to stick it out.

Disruptions,
like the bleeding heart tours, often upset some of the patients and they'd have
to be buckled down to beds in the restraint rooms. The District people and
their lackeys would despair the poor things, lashed down and foaming with their
madnesses, and beseech me to let them free. My response was
to inform them that they were the reason these people were locked
down in the first place, that their presence upset the patients. This was met with stony silences and the cold shoulder. I
didn't care. I didn't want these people here upsetting my patients and I made
no bones about it.

So,
back to the Jesuses. The District never visited at Christmas time, so they never knew about this. As soon as December began, and the snow flakes would swirl
on the wind to be swept away by the cold winter desert, I would begin to
prepare for the arrival of numerous messiahs.They would emerge from sandstorms with the lower half of their faces
covered, long wild hair and beards matted with debris. They would come stamping
and rubbing their arms, cluttering up my receiving area and tracking mud and
god knows what else in with them. Without fail, they would each claim, in some
form or another that they were Jesus, son of God, and they required asylum from
the Philistines who persecuted them. Some of them were very good, quoting Bible
verses that supposedly hadn't been written in Jesus' time yet but well versed
in the good book anyway.

I'd let them stay awhile. They weren't hurting anything and no one dared tattle on me. But then they'd have to leave sooner or later. I got a routine after some years; the
day after Christmas, I would gather these Jesuses together in the common room
and line them up along the back wall. Then I would drag a couple of my more
damaged patients into the room, sit them down, and demand a healing. The reactions to my
prayer were invariably humorous.

"MaryMotherFullofGrace,Hallowedbythyname,thyKingdomcomethywillbedoneAMEN!"
one particularly scruffy specimen intoned in a voice that was surprisingly deep
and resonant. Other Jesuses followed suit, invoking the Holy Spirit and the
Father and the Son-forgetting for the moment that they were supposed to be the
Son.

Several
Jesuses just grinned sheepishly at me, and slunk away to gather their things.
We called these the modern day hoboes. These guys would travel the country,
bouncing from institution to institution with a well-worn patter of crazy to
see them through. In the winter months, they headed for warm climates like
Texas and the South. In summer months, they sought balmy weather like Wyoming
and Montana, where the food was good and the people were sparse. But for some
reason, rain, sun, snow, or shine, a large population of hobo Jesuses would
come to me during the holidays, knowing I wouldn't kick them out in the cold. They could count on
three hots and a cot, and company during lonely holidays. And always, there
would be entertainment.

One year on that particular day, when the false Jesuses were weeded out and the hobo Jesuses had
departed, I turned to my regular patients and thanked them for their help in
getting rid of the imposters. See, the truly mentally ill don't like people who
play games at being mentally ill. It's like an insult or something. I felt like we needed a diversion. I divided
the group into two sections, and placed half of them on the left of the common
room, and half on the right. With the help of Vincent, a very large black man
with schizophrenia and a penchant for crushing skulls, and Margie, a hefty lady
and former nurse with a shock of bright carrot colored hair and bi-polar
disorder which caused her to drown her infant patients, we took all the chairs
and turned them over so that their legs stuck up in the air and formed a long
double line down the center of the room. Positioning my troops on either side
of these makeshift barracks, I handed out several bags of marshmallows
down the ranks and ordered my soldiers to arm themselves.

Grinning
like fools, even the most disturbed and dangerous patients grabbed handfuls of
the fluffy white treats. Several troops ate their ammunition but that was ok.
Fun was what I was after, to lighten the mood after the false messiahs had
turned the day sour.

"ON
MY COUNT!" I screamed at the top of my lungs, a little unhinged myself.
"ONE...TWO...THREE! FIRE!!!!!!"

They
let loose with a volley of marshmallows back and forth across the upturned
chairs. Drifts of sugary confections gathered in the legs and crannies of the
chairs, and several patients got down on their bellies, crawling commando-style
across the floor, to retrieve these fallen treats only to pop back up with
several in their mouths and several more to fling at the "enemy" on
the other side. Curtis Eldridge, a young man who was there for killing his
parents after they'd kept him tied to his bed until the day they forgot, was
singing jingles to commercials at the top of his lungs in a surprisingly
wonderful alto voice. Vinny and Marge were feeding each other marshmallows and
then spitting them back at each other, using their hands to clap distended
cheeks and force the sugary projectiles out at top speed.

I
watched with a sense of satisfaction. These damaged people, who came to me
broken and unable in many cases to communicate with any "normal"
people always seemed to do best when under my care. I loved them all, the crazy
bastards, and many years after they came, stayed or went, and even died
under my watch, I can still hear them laughing and singing and waltzing around
the room, slipping on marshmallows and crawling on the floor like children,
without a care in the world or a Jesus in sight.

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Patterns and Prose

Chrystal Vaughan

About Me

I'm the author of Sideshow, a heart pounding, nerve wracking, tear inducing tale of horror with a bright circus theme. Also the author of the Young Adult novel, Dead in the Water, wherein a young girl finds courage, discovers love, and gets a taste of the other side. My new book, Conspiracy of Ravens, is not for the faint of heart: follow young reporter Sophia Pascale as she confronts a female serial killer dubbed 'The Raven Witch Killer' and learns that judgment comes on deadly wings.